ng him full in the face, I said
slowly and distinctly:

"This friend of yours that you speak of--is not his name HELIOBAS?"

Cellini started violently; the blood rushed up to his brows and as
quickly receded, leaving him paler than before. His dark eyes glowed
with suppressed excitement--his hand trembled. Recovering himself
slowly, he met my gaze fixedly; his glance softened, and he bent his
head with an air of respect and reverence.

"Mademoiselle, I see that you must know all. It is your fate. You are
greatly to be envied. Come to me to-morrow, and I will tell you
everything that is to be told. Afterwards your destiny rests in your
own hands. Ask nothing more of me just now."

He escorted me without further words back to the ballroom, where the
merriment of the cotillon was then at its height. Whispering to Mrs.
Everard as I passed her that I was tired and was going to bed, I
reached the outside passage, and there, turning to Cellini, I said
gently:

"Good-night, signor. To-morrow at noon I will come."

He replied:

"Good-night, mademoiselle! To-morrow at noon you will find me ready."

With that he saluted me courteously and turned away. I hurried up to my
own room, and on arriving there I could not help observing the
remarkable freshness of the lilies I wore. They looked as if they had
just been gathered. I unfastened them all from my dress, and placed
them carefully in water; then quickly disrobing, I was soon in bed. I
meditated for a few minutes on the various odd occurrences of the day;
but my thoughts soon grew misty and confused, and I travelled quickly
off into the Land of Nod, and thence into the region of sleep, where I
remained undisturbed by so much as the shadow of a dream.

CHAPTER V.

CELLINI'S STORY.

The following morning at the appointed hour, I went to Cellini's
studio, and was received by him with a sort of gentle courtesy and
kindliness that became him very well. I was already beginning to
experience an increasing languor and weariness, the sure forerunner of
what the artist had prophesied--namely, a return of all my old
sufferings. Amy, tired out by the dancing of the previous night, was
still in bed, as were many of those who had enjoyed Madame Didier's
fete; and the hotel was unusually quiet, almost seeming as though half
the visitors had departed during the night. It was a lovely morning,
sunny and calm; and Cellini, observing that I looked listless and
fatigued, placed